Chapter Text
As Lilja approached the steps leading to Jorrvaskr, a sense of unease settled in her soul like a heavy fog. Something was wrong, she could feel it with every fibre of her being. But it wasn't just a feeling; it was evident in the atmosphere around her. Too many people were gathered, their voices hushed and anxious, their eyes filled with worry and fear.
The air crackled with tension, a palpable sense of foreboding hanging over the scene like a storm cloud ready to burst.
As Torvar stood over the body of the fallen man, his expression was a mix of shock, anger, and grief. In his hand, he clutched a silver sword stained with the blood of their attackers.
"The Silver Hand," he muttered, his voice trembling with emotion. "They finally had the nerve to attack Jorrvaskr. We got most of them, but I think a few stragglers made it out."
His words hung heavy in the air, a grim reminder of the danger that lurked beyond their walls. The Companions had faced many threats in their long history, but this attack struck particularly close to home, leaving behind a trail of death and devastation.
Aela's tear-streaked gaze bore into Lilja's, and in that moment, a heavy silence descended upon them, thick with unspoken grief and uncertainty. Lilja's heart clenched with dread as she instinctively knew that they had lost one of their own. But the question of who remained lodged in her throat like a bitter pill, choking off any words she might have spoken.
With a heavy heart, Lilja dropped the sack containing the witches' heads and moved with determined urgency, taking the stairs two at a time as she raced toward the heart of Jorrvaskr. Her mind raced with possibilities, each more dreadful than the last, but she pushed aside her fears, focusing instead on the task at hand.
As she reached the top of the stairs, her heart pounding in her chest, Lilja steeled herself for the sight that awaited her.
The scene that greeted Lilja as she reached the heart of Jorrvaskr was a chilling tableau of death and destruction. Blood pooled on the floor, staining the once pristine halls of their home with the stark reminder of their recent battle. Bodies lay strewn about, silent witnesses to the violence that had unfolded within their walls.
Her heart clenched with sorrow as she surveyed the grim aftermath, her mind reeling with the weight of their loss. She wanted to ask who had fallen, to seek solace in the shared grief of her companions, but the truth lay before her, laid bare by the sacrilege that awaited her.
As Lilja's eyes fell upon the fallen form of Kodlak, their revered Harbinger and father figure, her heart shattered into a thousand jagged pieces. The weight of his loss bore down upon her like a crushing burden, threatening to consume her with grief.
Sobs echoed through the hall, mingling with the flickering light of the fire pit, casting long, dancing shadows across the faces of their grieving comrades. But amidst the anguished cries, there was one voice that pierced through the sorrow, cutting into Lilja's soul like a flaming axe.
It was the voice of Vilkas, the man who had never fully accepted her as a true Companion, whose scepticism and distrust had always lingered like a dark cloud over their bond. His words were like daggers, each one a painful reminder of her perceived inadequacy, her failure to earn his respect and acceptance.
"Where have you been? The old man... Kodlak... he's dead."
"I was doing Kodlak's bidding," Lilja replied, her voice steady despite the turmoil raging within her. She met Vilkas's accusatory glare with a defiant stare of her own, refusing to let his judgment undermine her resolve.
"I hope it was important because it means you weren't here to defend him," Vilkas continued, his tone laced with bitterness and resentment toward their newest member.
At that moment, as the weight of Kodlak's loss threatened to overwhelm her, Lilja felt a surge of anger and defiance rise within her. She would not allow Vilkas's judgment to define her worth as a warrior and a member of the Companions. She would prove herself worthy, not just to him, but to herself and the memory of their fallen Harbinger.
Lilja winced as Vilkas's fingers dug into her arm, his grip tight with grief and anger. She met his dark gaze with a steely resolve of her own, feeling the weight of his words like a heavy burden upon her shoulders.
"The Silver Hand," Vilkas growled, his voice thick with emotion. "They finally found enough courage to attack Jorrvaskr. They made off with all our fragments of Wuuthrad. But you and I are going to reclaim them. We will bring the battle to their chief camp. There will be none left living to tell their stories. Only songs of Jorrvaskr will be sung. We will avenge Kodlak. And they will know terror before the end."
"Let's go," she said, her voice steady despite the turmoil raging within her. "For Kodlak. For the Companions.”
As Lilja marched alongside Vilkas towards their mission of vengeance, she couldn't shake the nagging question that lingered in her mind. Why had Vilkas chosen her, of all people, to accompany him on this quest for revenge? They had never been particularly close, and his refusal to join her on hunts or quests had always left her feeling somewhat distant from him.
But now was not the time for such ponderings. There were more pressing matters at hand – avenging their fallen Harbinger and retrieving the precious fragments of Wuuthrad that had been stolen from them. Lilja clenched her jaw with determination, pushing aside her doubts and uncertainties.
As they rode toward their destination, Vilkas couldn't help but steal glances at the woman riding beside him. Since their departure from Jorrvaskr, she had remained silent, her expression unreadable as she focused on the path ahead. He couldn't shake the weight of guilt and frustration that settled over him like a heavy cloak. He knew he was being irrational to blame the woman riding beside him for not being there to defend Kodlak. Deep down, he understood that even if she had been present at Jorrvaskr, the outcome would have likely been the same. The Silver Hand had struck swiftly and ruthlessly, catching them all off guard.
Vilkas vividly remembered the chaos of that fateful day. Everyone had been gathered outside in the training yard, leaving only Kodlak, Vignar, and Tilma vulnerable within the walls of Jorrvaskr. When the Silver Hand attacked, Kodlak had shielded Tilma from harm, paying the ultimate price for his selfless act of protection.
As the day ended, Vilkas scanned the surrounding landscape for a suitable spot to make camp. The fading light cast long shadows across the rugged terrain, and he knew all too well the dangers that lurked in the darkness beyond.
He didn't relish the idea of venturing into The Pale after nightfall, where Frostbite spiders and wandering Draugr roamed freely under the cover of darkness. It was a treacherous place, even for seasoned warriors like themselves.
Spotting a sheltered clearing nestled between two rocky outcroppings, Vilkas nodded in satisfaction. It offered some protection from the elements and provided a vantage point to keep watch for any potential threats.
With a gesture to the woman riding beside him, Vilkas guided his horse toward the clearing, signalling that they would make camp there for the night. They would need to rest and replenish their strength before continuing their journey to confront the Silver Hand.
As they dismounted and began to set up camp, Vilkas remained vigilant, his senses attuned to any signs of danger. In the wilderness of Skyrim, one could never afford to let their guard down, especially when darkness fell, and the creatures of the night stirred from their slumber.
As Vilkas handed Lilja the provisions, he felt a lump form in his throat, the weight of his earlier harsh words heavy upon him. He had let his grief and anger get the better of him, lashing out at her unfairly in his moment of pain. Now, as he looked into her eyes, he found himself at a loss for words.
Her eyes, he realised, were the same striking blue he had noticed the first time she had stepped foot into Jorrvaskr months ago. But now, bathed in the warm glow of the campfire, they seemed to take on a mesmerising hue, almost like molten lava, swirling with intensity and depth.
"I...," Vilkas began, but the words caught in his throat as he met Lilja's gaze. There was a vulnerability there, a softness that tugged at his heartstrings, reminding him of her humanity amidst the trials they faced.
Swallowing hard, Vilkas cleared his throat before finally finding his voice. "I am truly sorry for my harsh words, pup... Lilja."
To his surprise, a small smile graced Lilja's lips, a glimmer of warmth in her eyes. "It is the first time you called me by my name," she replied softly, her voice carrying a hint of understanding and forgiveness.
At that moment, Vilkas felt a weight lift from his shoulders, a sense of relief flooding through him. Despite the hardships they faced, he knew that they were not alone and that together, they could weather any storm that came their way. As they sat together by the flickering campfire, sharing a meal beneath the starlit sky, Vilkas felt a newfound sense of camaraderie and kinship with the woman beside him, his fellow warrior and companion on this journey of vengeance and redemption.
Vilkas sat by the crackling fire, his gaze fixed on the sleeping form of his companion across from him, he found himself wrestling with thoughts that refused to be silenced. Despite the reassuring presence of his horse nearby, standing sentinel against the night, he couldn't shake the feeling of restlessness that gnawed at him from within.
His mind drifted back to the day when Lilja had first appeared before Kodlak, seeking to join their esteemed ranks as a Companion. There was something about her then, a sense of determination and resolve that had caught his attention. It was more than just her courage and strength that had drawn him in. There was a depth to her, a hidden layer beneath the surface that he couldn't quite unravel.
And now, as he watched her sleep, bathed in the gentle glow of the firelight, he found himself captivated by her presence once more. There was an inexplicable pull, a connection that transcended words or logic, binding them together in ways he couldn't begin to fathom. Perhaps, he thought to himself, it was this enigmatic quality about her that had tilted his world on its axis from the moment she had stepped into his life.
Vilkas and Lilja stood before the ruins of Driftshade Refuge, a heavy silence settled between them, thick with unspoken regrets and lingering what-ifs. Vilkas couldn't shake the weight of responsibility that bore down upon him, the burden of decisions made, and actions left undone.
The memory of their previous encounter with the Silver Hand haunted him, a constant reminder of the consequences of their inaction. He and Farkas had scoped the building, assessed the situation, and ultimately chosen to leave the enemy to be dealt with another day. But that decision had come at a cost—one that Vilkas couldn't help but feel keenly, even now.
Kodlak's death weighed heavily on his mind, a painful reminder of the stakes they faced in their ongoing battle against the Silver Hand. If only they had acted differently, if only they had heeded Farkas's warnings and confronted the enemy head-on, perhaps their Harbinger would still be alive. The weight of that regret threatened to overwhelm him, casting a shadow over their every move.
But Vilkas knew that dwelling on the past would only hinder their efforts to move forward. What was done was done, and no amount of regret could change the outcome. With a firm resolve, he rolled his shoulders, steeling himself for the challenges that lay ahead. They would honour Kodlak's memory by continuing the fight, by seeking justice for his untimely demise.
Vilkas watched Lilja fight and he couldn't help but feel a sense of awe wash over him. With each graceful step and precise swing of her weapon, she moved with a fluidity and precision that left him spellbound.
It was a sight he had grown accustomed to seeing in the training yard of Jorrvaskr, where Lilja had honed her skills under the watchful eye of the Companions. But even now, as she faced off against their enemies in the heat of battle, her prowess was nothing short of breathtaking.
With each strike, Lilja's weapon found its mark with unerring accuracy, striking down their foes with deadly efficiency. Her movements were a dance of death, a symphony of steel and skill that left no room for error. And in that moment, he couldn't help but feel grateful to have her by his side, a steadfast ally in the face of adversity.
Lilja knelt to unlock the door on Vilkas's command. They could not leave any room or nook unsearched, not if they were to ensure the safety of their comrades and rid the fortress of the Silver Hand once and for all.
As the door creaked open, revealing the darkness beyond, Vilkas steeled himself for whatever lay ahead. He knew that the Silver Hand would stop at nothing to protect their stronghold, but he was equally determined to see justice served for the atrocities they had committed.
Vilkas sensed movement from the darkness. His instincts kicked in, and he acted swiftly, pulling Lilja back with a firm grip on her arm. In that split second, he knew that danger was upon them, but he also knew that they were already too late to avoid it.
The massive orc swung his spiked silver war hammer. The impact was devastating, the force of the blow shattering his armour and crushing his chest with a sickening crunch. Agony ripped through him as ribs splintered and his sternum caved inwards, the sensation akin to being crushed beneath the weight of a collapsing mountain.
Blood flooded his lungs, drowning him from within as he struggled to draw breath. Darkness encroached on the edges of his vision, threatening to consume him whole. With each laboured gasp, he felt life slipping away, the stone floor beneath him offering a cold and unforgiving embrace.
As darkness threatened to overpower him, Vilkas's senses were on high alert, his mind racing with the urgency of the situation. He watched in horror as Lilja, with a valiant but desperate move, leapt onto the Orc's back, attempting to thwart his impending attack.
But Vilkas knew that Lilja alone would not be able to overpower the Orc, and he knew that he had to act fast. With every ounce of strength he could muster, he tried to roll to his feet, his muscles screaming in protest against the pain that seared through his chest.
At that moment, time seemed to slow to a crawl as Vilkas fought against the darkness that threatened to consume him. He could feel the weight of his injuries bearing down on him, threatening to drag him into oblivion.
But even as the darkness closed in around him, Vilkas refused to give up. With one final surge of determination, he pushed himself to his feet, his vision swimming as he struggled to stay conscious.
And then, just as he felt himself slipping away, a flicker of hope ignited within him. Through the haze of pain and despair, he saw Lilja begin to transform into her beast, her primal fury unleashed in a torrent of raw power.
Strong arms enveloped him, lifting him from the cold, unforgiving floor. He found himself relaxing against the werewolf's fur-clad chest, his breath catching in his throat as he took in the surreal scene before him. With gentle care, the beast lowered him onto a bed, its features contorting into what could only be described as a smile.
His voice was rough and raspy with pain. "Lilja?" he whispered.
The silver werewolf turned to leave the room and a flicker of recognition stirred within him, like a distant memory struggling to break free from the depths of his subconscious. He couldn't shake the feeling that there was something familiar about the creature, something that tugged at the edges of his consciousness with tantalizing insistence.
His gaze lingered on the werewolf's form, his eyes drawn to the slightly lighter streak on its flank as if it held the key to unlocking the secrets buried within his fractured mind. He yearned to call out, to demand answers, to unravel the mystery of why this creature seemed so strangely familiar to him. But before he could utter a single word, a wave of dizziness washed over him, sending him tumbling back into the waiting arms of darkness.
Vilkas lay in the grip of agony, his senses dulled by the overwhelming pain that seemed to pulse through every fibre of his being. His mind swirled with confusion, a haze of disorientation clouding his thoughts as he struggled to piece together fragments of memory that danced just beyond his grasp.
He blinked, the dim light of the small room casting long shadows across the walls. Where was he? How had he come to be here? A cool hand gently touched his cheek, drawing his attention. Lilja's voice, a soothing balm amidst the chaos, reached his ears, calming his racing heart. With tender care, she tilted his head and pressed a bottle to his lips, urging him to drink slowly.
Relief flooded through Vilkas as the healing potion trickled down his throat, its potent magic coursing through his ravaged body. Yet, with each swallow, a new wave of pain surged within him, more intense than anything he had ever experienced. It was as if his very being was being remade, every broken bone and torn muscle knit back together with searing precision.
Gasping for air, Vilkas clenched his teeth against the overwhelming agony, his muscles tensing as the healing potion worked its miraculous power. He wanted to cry out, to scream in protest against the torment wracking his body. But he forced himself to endure, to trust in Lilja's expertise and the healing magic she had provided. Slowly, agonisingly, the pain began to ebb, replaced by a dull ache that throbbed through every fibre of his being.
In a haze of pain, Vilkas found himself teetering on the precipice between life and death. Each agonizing moment was a battle against the inevitable, a struggle to cling to the fragile thread of existence that threatened to slip through his grasp with every laboured breath.
Lilja, her presence a beacon of hope in the darkness, tended to him with a skill born of necessity. Her hands moved with delicate precision as she administered potions and poultices, her words a soothing balm to his battered soul. Yet, even as she worked tirelessly to mend his broken body, there was a shadow of concern that lingered in her gaze—a silent reminder of the precariousness of his condition.
"It was but a heartbeat away," she murmured, her voice a whisper in the stillness of the room. "If not for the potions I found in a chest nearby, you would have joined Skjor in The Hunting Grounds."
With gentle hands, Lilja helped him to his feet, her touch a reassuring anchor in the storm of uncertainty that raged within him.
"You need to shift, Vilkas," she urged, her voice soft yet firm. "The potions can only do so much to mend your bones. Shifting is the only solution."
Vilkas surrendered to the ancient ritual of shifting, he braced himself for the onslaught of agony that he knew would follow. But nothing could have prepared him for the searing pain that ripped through his body like wildfire, consuming him from within.
A primal howl tore from his lips, echoing through the confines of the building with an intensity that reverberated in the very bones of those who heard it. It was a cry born of raw anguish, a testament to the torment that ravaged his flesh and soul alike.
But as the seconds stretched into eternity, something remarkable began to happen. With each guttural roar that escaped his throat, the pain began to ebb, like waves receding from a storm-ravaged shore. The howls that had once been cries of agony transformed into triumphant declarations of liberation, a primal symphony that echoed through the halls with otherworldly power.
And then, just as suddenly as it had begun, the pain vanished, leaving behind only the lingering echoes of his beast's primal roar.
With Lilja's support, Vilkas eased himself into a sitting position in a room that served as a kitchen and dining area. Bodies torn asunder by the savage fury of beasts were stacked against a wall. His eyes scanned the scene, taking in the gruesome aftermath of the battle.
He watched as Lilja gathered the scattered pieces of the sacred battle axe, his mind reeling with questions about the events that had transpired.
"How?" he murmured, his voice hoarse with pain and disbelief. The devastation wrought upon the Silver Hand seemed beyond comprehension, and Vilkas struggled to make sense of it all.
Lilja paused in her task, meeting his gaze with a solemn expression.
Lilja shrugged. “There were cages with werewolves and a werebear. I simply opened the cages, and they hunted their tormentors.”
“How did they not attack you?”
Again, she shrugged, “I think the thirst for revenge against their captors was stronger.”
Vilkas listened intently to Lilja's explanation, his brows furrowed in thought. The notion of her freeing the werewolves and werebear and having them turn on their captors was both impressive and unsettling.
The memory of the battle flashed in his mind. The chaos, and the screams, all seemed to merge into a haunting symphony of violence. Before the storm of chaos engulfed them there was a moment of eerie stillness. In that pregnant pause, a single command pierced the silence.
Lilja's voice had rung out. "Kill them, kill them all.”
